DotA: Chronicles of the Age of Pain
by The Great Mush
Summary: The war between those who protect the World Tree and those who march under the banner of the Frozen Throne has been waged since time immemorial. This is a tale chronicling one of the greatest eras in the history of that war. Behold, the Age of Pain.
1. Foreword

**Foreword**

**PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE take, like, 20 seconds to write a review! I need the Feedback!  
**

I wrote this fanfiction based _very _loosely on the world of DotA. You don't have to know anything about DotA to enjoy this story, although if you do it'd provide a greater sense of amusement I suppose. The map is great anyway, if you haven't given it a shot then you should, but I digress. **This is just a small section to ask you to review my work, I do plan on becoming a full-fledged novelist one day so I'd like to know what I might improve on. **Do not slam this fanfiction because it may be inaccurate to the game of DotA and the Warcraft franchise; it is not supposed to be accurate to the current fictional world of Warcraft or DotA. On a side note: the names in the story are not mine, they are entirely the property of the creators' of DotA, who must themselves give credit to Blizzard. **Enjoy!**

**The heroes mentioned so far, see if you can identify them in the story!**

**Sentinel**

Prophet, Stealth Assassin, Alchemist Senior (An actual fat, short, green, goblin. Do not mistake him for the Alchemist you see in game), Alchemist Junior (Perhaps he might be the actual Alchemist in DotA), Slayer, Crystal Maiden, Moon Rider, Windrunner, Keeper of the Light, Dragon Knight, Drow Ranger, Slayer, Priestess of the Moon, Templar Assassin, Lord of Olympia, Juggernaught, Earthshaker, Faerie Dragon, Stone Giant, Admiral Proudmoore, Centaur Warchief, Bristleback, Sacred Warrior, Shadow Shaman, Troll Warlord.

**Scourge**

Night Stalker, Tormented Soul, Queen of Pain, Doom Bringer, Slithereen Guard, Pit Lord, Phantom Assassin, Lycanthrope, Necro'lic, Geomancer, Witchdoctor, Warlock, Axe, Bloodseeker.


	2. Lord of the Night

**Chapter 1**

**_Lord of the Night_  
**

** T**he trees, crooked and ghastly like dozens of disfigured lepers, seemed to claw at him with their sickle-like fingers, and their branches, grotesquely elongated arms, stretched out to block his escape. The Night Stalker batted futilely at the dead oaks obstructing his path as he leapt through even the smallest of spaces in order to confuse his pursuers. He knew to slow was to die, so with that thought he continued to plow through what seemed to be an endless sea of corrupted Firs and Ironwoods. Alas, even as a member of one of the strongest races, the Night Stalker grew weary. Chased from his hunting grounds, where the trees were green and ripe with fruit, he had made his way from a terrain of dense foliage to a desolate wasteland, void of life, where even the dirt took on a hue of grey and the land wore scars as if some wrathful deity had ripped into it in frustration. He was young, saturated with pride, and had been foolish when he had decided to attack the three trespassers who had stumbled into his domain a league and a half from his current position. He had ignored the teachings of his forefathers, and instead of waiting until the Great Moon showed her face in the night sky, had attacked when the cursed Sun had been at its apex. Unfortunately for him, his targets' appearance in his territory was not only not accidental, but charged with purpose. Their mission was to hunt the poacher in the Sentinel Woods who had been slaughtering all the livestock and the occasional villager, the poacher being, conveniently, one and the same as the monster that had just attacked them. The Night Stalker had quickly realized his mistake and had turned tail without a good look at the trespassers just as a jet of flame seared past him. He had thrown a void spell somewhere behind him in an attempt to slow the hunters, but decided it would be more prudent not to check. Now, approximately five hours since that unfortunate encounter, five hours of constant hiding, backtracking, dead runs, cautious sneaking, and bursts of light skirmishes from now and then, the Night Stalker finally collapsed, soaked with sweat, his wings, both seemingly weighing a ton each, hung limp over his shoulders.

"This bastard can really run! Can't you boy?" a voice, out of breath, wheezed from the shadows behind him.

"Let's end this quickly, I've already wasted too much time today," another voice, quiet as the rustling of dry leaves, replied.

The Night Stalker pushed himself onto his feet and flexed his wings. He turned around to face his executioners, expecting to see three mighty warriors. He was sorely disappointed when an overweight goblin rumbled out of the darkness. He quickly snapped his head back when a branch snapped behind him, just to find a diminutive blue-furred satyr leap out of the trees swinging a scythe at his face. With a roar of rage the Night Stalker spun around, sweeping his right wing out, and knocked the satyr to the side. The satyr flipped in mid air and hit the opposite tree with his hooves, landing nimbly in a crouch, ready to blink again.

"Darkbrew, keep him down would you?" the satyr, the second one who had spoken snarled.

"Shakin' shakin', one concoction comin' right up!" the wheezer replied.

The goblin produced a bottle of strange bubbling, purple liquid from one of his dozens of pouches, and began to shake it. The Night Stalker kept an eye on Darkbrew as he and the satyr began to circle one another, making sure he never had his back to the alchemist. The Night Stalker jerked to a sudden stop. A surge of power had just slammed into him, loosening up his aching muscles and clearing his fogged mind. His eyes began to glow a brilliant crimson, his fangs grew until they extended over his lower lip, and he felt twice as strong and fast as he did just a moment ago. He realized what time it was. Sun down. The night had come! Without another thought he thundered towards the Satyr.

"Now is about right, goblin," the satyr shouted in panic.

"Aye! This is for Lina, I sure hope her leg is ok!" Razzil Darkbrew shouted as he chucked his concoction at the Night Stalker.

The bottle shattered against one of his horns and exploded as the liquid came into contact with the night air. The blast knocked the Night Stalker from his feet, sending him sprawling three feet away. He lay on his back; his vision swam as he tried to focus on the satyr. A loud, annoying, ringing sound filled his head, further disorienting him. There was nothing he could do but look on as the satyr rushed to him, taking advantage of his unfortunate circumstance. Closing his eyes, he took comfort in the knowledge that his Void had injured at least one of his pursuers. A few seconds passed and the ringing in his ear faded. His vision steadied and he wondered if this was death. It was rather too peaceful and painless to have been death. He propped himself up on his elbows to take a look at what had happened. The first thing he noticed was the giant violet portal that floated but a couple of feet away. The second thing he noticed was the desperate fight occurring before him. The goblin, Darkbrew, had grown in size, and wielded two, twin-bladed swords, and was twirling them at a break-neck speed in an effort to deflect the attacks coming from all directions. A giant, four-legged, demon slammed its double-bladed spear repeatedly against Darkbrew's swords, while a massive purple wolf darted in and out of the goblin's reach, taking huge chunks of flesh out of Darkbrew's legs, which seemed to be for not as the wounds knitted closed at an unnatural rate. To the Night Stalker's right, a cloud of dust hid two constantly blinking figures, their fight seemed to be a dance of steel, the contact of their blades a stream of chimes that produced a song of war. Whereas the fight to his left was a display of brute strength and ferocity, the one to his right was graceful, a show of agility, nimbleness, and technique.

"Are you done playing lycan?" the demon roared as he struck Razzil another blow.

The wolf growled and nodded in response.

"Tempestas Infernus!" the demon shouted as it raised its spear.

Dark clouds rolled across the sky and converged overhead. From the depths of the sky, molten boulders crashed to the earth. The balls of fire slammed into Darkbrew, crushing his arms, and snapping his legs. The flames ate away at his flesh, preventing his healing factor from bringing the goblin back from the brink of death. The wolf darted into the Firestorm, dodging the falling rocks, and ripped the goblin's head from his shoulders.

It shall be written, in the future logs of the Sentinel archives: so passed the first Razzil Darkbrew, one of the Sentinel's most ruthless bounty hunters, an alchemist of unfathomable greed and unimaginable genius, who gave his life in a battle against the hordes of the scourge.

Upon the alchemists grizzly death, the satyr untangled himself from his fight with his opponent. As the dust cleared, the Night Stalker could make out the shape of one of his saviours. He was surprised to find that the one that had been in combat with the satyr was a woman. She held a ring blade, a hoop of jagged blades, by the handle in one hand. Her cloak fluttered in the wind that her fight had produced.

"Your friend seems to have stopped resisting, I'd suggest you do the same," She purred.

"That'd be the last mistake I'd ever make, wouldn't it my dear?"

With that he jumped into the shadows and vanished into thin air. The vixen shrieked in outrage as she blinked to the trees and began to slash frantically at the dead trunks and branches that she blamed for her prey's escape.

"Calm yourself, Mortred, the time will come when you meet with that pest again," the demon bellowed.

"He was right there, right within the reach of my blade! This is unacceptable, the coward must pay!" Mortred screamed.

The wolf sat on his haunches and seemed to laugh, his jaws open wide, tongue lolling out, eyes closed. Mortred started towards him but the demon's spear barred her path.

"Enough! Mortred go cool your head. Banehallow, go back and tell Visage to send his revenant back to patrol, it probably saved this creature's life just now."

The woman glared at the demon, almost as if she were about to attack it, but seemed to think better of it and blinked out of sight. The wolf, presumably Banehallow, followed suit and leapt into the portal.

"What have we here?" the demon asked in its deep, rumbling voice, as it made its way to the Night Stalker. "A Night Stalker? I haven't seen one in ages, where have you all gone?"

"That is none of your business, demon," the Night Stalker spat.

"None of my business? You seem to be misunderstanding something, anything that enters King Leshrac's empire is my business, including your scrawny hide."

The demon laid the edge of his spear against the Night Stalker's throat.

"Now answer me, and if your answers are acceptable, I may allow you into the family," he growled.

"If not?"

The demon pressed the blade hard enough to draw blood.

"Good enough an answer, youngling?" he said.

The Night Stalker nodded carefully, trying to avoid being cut any deeper.

"I don't know the history of the earliest of my ancestors. What I do know is that for half a millennium my race has inhabited the Southern Forests, living our lives as hunters. We drank the blood of Wilkin, Furbolgs, Kobolds and even the occasional dragon; we were the lords of the night! Then, not even a century ago, we began to be hunted. Not at night, for the foolish man-creatures quickly realized night time was our domain, but during the day they'd send their armies out to destroy us at our weakest. Those cowards soon reduced our numbers until we had to hide like beasts and hunt like fearful wild ferrets. I believe I am the last of my kin, my father slain by some sort of magic bolt. Magic, magic is the coward's weapon!" The Night Stalker roared in frustration.

The demon had long since retracted its spear, and upon the completion of the Night Stalker's story, it waved it again and a cage of bones erupted from the rotting ground.

"I too use magic, do you call me a coward?"

"Nay, you use magic as an aid, but that strange spear is what must truly be feared."

"My king uses magic, is he then a coward?"

"Aye, he is, this king of yours knows nothing of true battle," the Night Stalker spat.

The demon chuckled at his naivety. It turned around and made its way towards the portal. Before it stepped into the swirling ether it gestured for the Night Stalker to follow.

"Then I invite you to meet this coward, and if he deems you acceptable, you will be given one of the most important opportunities you will ever receive."

Not knowing what to do, the Night Stalker lifted himself up and followed the demon through the portal–

–and stumbled headlong into a pair of frozen, iron doors. To his right, the demon planted its four legs into the black, marble floor and pushed with all its might against the right door. Its muscles bulged disturbingly as the door slowly creaked open. Apparently it was heavy. The demon and the Night Stalker stepped into what seemed to be an immense throne room. The floor was made of a marble so black that the Night Stalker was afraid he might fall forever into the darkness if he didn't concentrate. A colossal throne stood at the center of the far wall, and upon it sat a strange, translucent creature. It glowed an eerie, sickly blue, and had the body of a stag. Its upper half was that of an elder elf, beard, ears, stag-horns and all. It held a whip covered with razor-sharp thorns. Another throne, much smaller, stood to the left of the first. A beautiful succubus with azure skin, hauntingly beautiful eyes, an exquisite figure, and velvet wings that looked like an expensive gown, sprawled across it. She yawned and twirled her hair with one lazy claw. To either side of the thrones a gigantic Naga wielding a golden trident, and a gargantuan demon with long horns, black wings, and an impressive flaming sword, stood at attention. As the Night Stalker entered the room a voice like the rumbling of thunder filled the room.

"Why, if I am not mistaken, that is a Night Stalker you have brought into my presence, Azgalor."

"Yes, my king, you are correct as always," the pit lord replied, its head bowed, spear swept outwards, and all four of its legs bent almost like a curtsy.

"Come forward, young one."

The Night Stalker could do nothing but comply. The voice was so confident, so authoritative, that to do anything else would surely be fatal. As he reached the ghost-like figure, whom he was certain was the being that spoke in that awe-inspiring voice, an invisible pulse forced him to look into its eyes.

And what he saw was not cowardice.

What he saw was a storm of pain. What he saw was countless battles in which the magnificent creature had led the charges. What he saw was countless victories, innumerable defeats, timeless tortures, and unending slaughter. What he saw filled him with such fear that it felt as though his innards would dissolve. His heart beat so painfully against its prison of flesh that he was sure it would burst free of its chains, and tears fell uncontrollably from his unmoving eyes.

"This one is young, untried, weak, foolish."

The Night Stalker's heart sunk. Surely this powerful being would destroy him now with but a blink of its eyes.

"Yet, now that he has seen what he must see, he will be loyal. The blood running through his veins is the blood of one of the most powerful races this world has ever seen. He has the potential to become one of the strongest warriors in my empire. Under my rule, my personal tutelage, he may become worthy of the title, Lord of the Night, that his forefathers worked so hard to earn."

Leshrac paused, dropping the Night Stalker in a quivering pile at the foot of his throne.

"Look at me."

The Night Stalker trembled under his gaze.

"_Look at me!_" his voice boomed, shaking the pillars in his throne room.

Reluctantly, the Night Stalker once again connected gazes with Leshrac.

"I give you this chance, it is but one chance, to swear loyalty to me, to serve me every second of every day for the rest of your unworthy life. I offer you a chance to become great, to have your name engraved into the stone tablets of history, to have it whispered with fear in the ears and hearts of your enemies. Now you must ask yourself, are you brave enough?"

The Night Stalker ground his teeth together and forced back his tears. He stood up, straight, wings spread to its full expanse. He clapped a fist to his heart and spoke.

"I do not lack courage. I am the bravest of the brave. You are braver than the bravest of the brave. You ask for every second of every day of the rest of my life? I will give you more. I will give you every second of every day of my life and the lives of all your enemies. I will paint you a portrait with their blood, build you a fortress with their skulls, bind your tomes with their skin, and weave you a tapestry with their hair."

He proceeded to bend down on one knee.

"I kneel now, to the one and only master I will ever swear loyalty to. If you deem me even slightly worthy, I humbly ask that you allow me to serve you to the best of my ability, nay, beyond the best of my ability."

He waited anxiously, ready to prostrate himself before this mightiest of the mighty, and beg to be given the chance to serve him.

"You are acceptable. Rise. From this day forth you will forgo all your previous names and titles. You are no longer the lone hunter, you will no longer be the hunted, you will be known as Balanar, and all your enemies shall tremble at the name. Thus I will it, thus it shall be."

"Aye, my King. Your will be done."


	3. Silence of the Satyr

**Chapter 2**

_**Silence of the Satyr**_

Rikimaru observed the procession from between the planes of light. When the Night Stalker and his saviors finally left, the satyr slipped back into the visible spectrum and knelt beside the burning corpse of his comrade. The unholy flames had eaten away large chunks of fat and tissue, leaving sizable sections of blackened bone and ash in its place. Soon, only the skeleton of the goblin would be left, sans skull; Rikimaru just couldn't find Razzil's head anywhere. Without his head, there was absolutely no way to resurrect the alchemist; the Scourge had been well versed in the intricacies of the War. Rikimaru examined the decaying body, making sure to avoid the flames that licked at his questing fingers, and found the buckle to the belt that held Razzil Darkbrew's many potions and journals. After a few seconds of unproductive pulling and pinching, he decided that slicing the belt off wouldn't be a bad idea; Razzil was dead, he wouldn't mind. With a sigh of regret, after all he did have a slight feeling of loss for his comrade, Rikimaru reached into his pocket and pulled out a scroll of yellow parchment. He bit his thumb and let a drop of his blood fall onto the scroll. Instantly, the blood traced out lines in an undecipherable arcane script, most likely in some sort of magical tongue. With a flourish, the scribbles stopped at the bottom of the page and the letters flared bright blue. Before Rikimaru could take another breath his surroundings had changed from a broken wilderness to the center of a bustling city. The clamor of shouting merchants, equally loud bargainers, and children and their parents replaced the awful silence of defeat, which had only been broken by the inconsistent cawing of a curious crow. The scroll crumbled into dust and drifted through his fingers, which was a damned shame, Rikimaru thought, because those things cost a hefty bundle. He quickly collected his thoughts and made his way swiftly towards the World Tree, careful to stay in the shadows and the blind spots of the passing citizens. As he made his way along the final street that would lead him to the gates of the World Tree he realized where he was. Not far from the gate stood the Goblin's Workshop, a gear-covered guild house established by the geniuses of the goblin race to provide them with a place to work their craft in peace. It was also the home of said geniuses, including that of Razzil Darkbrew. As the satyr neared the Workshop his mind decided to collapse in on itself with guilt-ridden indecision. Should he return Razzil's tools and tomes to his son, the rightful owner of said material, or should he hand them over to the Lord of the World Tree as protocol dictated? He knew what would happen to Razzil's belongings if he gave them to Furion; they would be put on display, as so many other fallen heroes' weapons were, in the Hall of the Fallen, and be given a grand pedestal in honor of the alchemist. However, there they would sit for the rest of the Kingdom's existance, unused, rotting in the short-lived admiration of the people of the City of Sentinelos. The time for a decision drew closer as he silently shortened the distance between him and the Workshop gates.

_By the wisdom of the Silent God I make this choice. In silence I shall bear this burden, for silence is my greatest companion, and only silence does not betray. Be well Darkbrew, for the silence protects your kin this day, and silence shall mark your gift._

His prayer finished, Rikimaru braced himself and blinked into the Goblin Workshop. With a series of blinks Rikimaru flitted from worker to worker until he arrived at Razzil's old alchemy office. He tested the door and, not to his surprise, it was locked. Rikimaru sighed in relief. His decision was clear, there was no way he'd wait around until someone opened the door, so the only course of action was to hand the belt over to Furion. Just as he was about to blink away he spotted a young goblin making his way toward him. He instinctively tensed up, hand dropping to the hilt of his scythe, and waited, ready to attack at any moment. Rikimaru visibly relaxed when he realized who the goblin was: Razzil's son, a rather haggard looking Razzil Junior. The young goblin, with dark, puffy bags under his eyes, paused at the door and looked around cautiously. When he confirmed that no one was in sight, he produced a key from his sleeve and unlocked his father's door.

_Sneaky little one. _Rikimaru thought with a smile on his face.

Before Razzil Junior could close the door behind him Rikimaru shadowed him into the room. When Razzil made sure the door was closed he quickly began to work at his father's workbench. Rikimaru was amazed at the speed with which Razzil's son measured and mixed the vibrantly coloured substances available to him. The goblin worked at a feverish pace, throwing away failed vials, which greatly outnumbered the successful ones, and placing the viable concoctions in the work-pouch strapped to his own waist. All the while Razzil Junior would mutter to himself complicated formulae, self-degradations, bursts of excitement, and hums and haws of confusion. It was all he could do not to chuckle as Rikimaru watched from the corner of the room. The satyr could not be amused forever, however, and just as Rikimaru noticed the setting sun and thought that the goblin would work deep into the evening he moved to knock the goblin out. Right before Rikimaru's scythe's hilt connected with the base of Razzil Junior's skull the goblin fell face first into his workbench, heavy, rumbling snores emanating from the hidden face. Rikimaru almost pitched over from the over-swing, only just catching himself before he stumbled into the slumbering figure. It seemed the sleepless nights had finally caught up to the young goblin, who had stayed up to use his father's office behind his father's back since three days before his father was sent on his mission with Rikimaru. What a horrifying surprise it'll be for him when he awakes to find his father's work-belt laying in front of him, a clear sign that his father has passed. Sadly, Rikimaru placed the belt on the workbench in front of Razzil Junior and, without a second glance, slipped out the door, blinked across the Workshop lobby, and glided into the chill evening air of the street. The satyr plunged into the darkness straight towards the twin Sentinel Guardians that watched over the gates of World Tree Hill, the governing district of Sentinelos, at the top of which the World Tree stood since before Furion's great ancestors.

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"Master Furion, there have been reports of unrest along the Northern Border. It seems that Scourge raiding parties have attacked the West River Outpost. So far the attacks have been half-hearted and casualties are few on both sides, but I fear this is not a simple rogue troop hunting for sport."

"You may be right, General Moonfang, but we shall not be the first to break the temporary treaty between us and the Frozen Empire. If we attack prematurely we could risk losing the recovery and recruitment time that this treaty has enabled us to have. Say we eradicate the bandits, and it turns out they were not under the command of Leshrac, then we have drawn first blood on their soil which immediately breaks this tenuous time of peace that our citizens sorely need," replied Furion.

"Your wisdom never fails to astound me, Great One," said the Moon Rider.

"But nothing we shall not do, summon the Mistress of Crystal Academy," Furion whispered to his crow.

Moments later a sultry woman, covered in a purple cloak, strode confidently into the council chamber. She took a seat at the ancient oak table, directly opposite of Furion, and set her glowing crystal-topped staff against her elaborate blue, ironwood chair. She crossed her legs, revealing a rather short, white skirt underneath her cloak and spoke in a seductive tone.

"I don't assume this is an invitation to your quarters, Master Furion?" Rylai Crestfall said.

"Keep your skirt on woman, how are things at the Crystal Academy? Any pupils of worth this year?" Furion asked agitatedly.

Rylai pouted and replied, "we do have one. What was her name? Ah yes. Alleria Windrunner, I believe. However her spellcasting is far from the typical mage. It seems she has more than just a little ranger blood in her, her father's fault I presume, but it is her mother's blood that reigns supreme."

"Why have I not been notified about this? I am the General in charge of the Northern Barracks, a ranger should have been put under _my_ care," Luna growled.

"Are you deaf, kitty? Although she tends to favor her bow, her magical prowess greatly overpowers her ability to shoot sticks from a string. That girl shows much promise with wind manipulation, and under my supervision she can be a devastating force on the battlefield."

"Archery is more than just shooting a stick from a string! If she's as good as I think she is then she could be an archer that could rival Traxex. General Davion has been boasting about that drow for far too long, and even General Nightshade has her champion: Lanaya."

"Quiet, both of you! Luna, there should not be any competition between the Districts in the first place. We are all on the same side! First, I want you both to send a squad of mages and soldiers to the West River Outpost, just in case. As for this Alleria, there is an easy solution to this apparently unsolvable problem."

Rylai and Luna looked at Furion expectantly.

Furion, sighing, said, "both of you take her. Half the day she can study magic, the other half, archery, that way she'll be able to learn from two of the best of Sentinelos."

"Flattery has always worked on me, you sly, devilish fox," Rylai giggled before she waved her staff and warped out of the World Tree.

Luna rolled her eyes, nodded to her King, and rode out of the room.

Furion collapsed onto his throne. It seemed impossible, but after a decade of dealing with those two it still required every fiber of his body to handle them, let alone the entire twelve-member council. Luckily for him, the chamber was almost never full. Six of the seats belonged to foreign leaders under his rule. Zeus, Lord of Olympia, a fortress carved right into the face of Icecrown Mountain that acted as a natural barrier against the Frozen Empire to the north, was a hotheaded Warmage armed with the mythical hammer, Mjollnir. Even Leshrac dared not launch a direct assault against Olympia as long as Mjollnir still thunders in Zues' hands. Yurnero, nicknamed the Juggernaught for his ability to clear a path in the thick of battle with his sword alone, led the orc, ogre, and troll tribes that protected the Sentinel Woods between the East River and Sentinelos. He was an orc leader that would listen to reason, an uncommon trait for his quick-tempered race, and often provided valuable input in their strategy meetings. However, Yurnero's loyalty lay with his tribes. If things were to turn against Furion, the leader of the Sentinel Kingdom was unsure that Yurnero would stay by his side. Raigor Stonehoof, the Tauren Chieftain, was the most reliable of his allies. The old tauren was an escapee of the Frozen Empire, and he would never subject himself to the pain again. He led all the beast-folk in the Sentinel Woods: bristleback warriors, furbolg heroes, and even a set of kobold quadruplets. Admiral Proudmoore, a pirate lord who swore loyalty to Furion after the young prophet, before Furion became king, had saved his galleon from a storm, controlled the waters of the Main River. Proudmoore and his fleet were pretty much the only reason the Scourge could never take the Central Valley in all the years of the War that Furion had witnessed. Puck, the Faerie Dragon, represented all the dragons and the spirits in the Sentinel Woods. It was not so much a leader as an elected representative; its true ruler, most likely one of the Elder Dragons, being too arrogant to personally meet Furion. It, and the creatures it represented, was much like Yurnero. The only thing it cared for was its ability to stay in solitude. If lending a hand to the war effort on Furion's side would make sure of that, then so be it. Therefore, Puck and his kin stood sentry over the area between the West River and Sentinelos. One seat was an honorary one, the occupant wouldn't be able to fit in it; twenty feet of rock would probably crush the seat into splinters anyway. Nobody really knew its name, but when it was not around the council would refer to the Stone Giant as Tiny amidst a choked chorus of giggles. Tiny wasn't as much a leader as a massive, unstoppable force of nature that roamed freely across Sentinel territory. Leshrac never sent troops where Tiny was, which helped ease the pressure on the sector where the Stone Giant amused itself. Alone they were each quite easy to handle, it was when they were together that Furion would clam up and wait out the storm before he could issue any commands. The other six seats belonged to his three generals and archmagi. Representing the Northern District was Archmagus Rylai Crestfall, Mistress of the Crystal Academy, and General Luna Moonfang. Archmagus Ezalor, Keeper of the Light and Master of the Academa Lumina, and General Davion were in charge of the Central District, also known as the Main Corridor, and were given the special operative to send out hunting parties. The Mistress of the Ruby Academy, Lina Inverse, had recently been injured on a mission; a large amount of flesh from her right leg had been torn from its bone. If it wasn't for the bottle of water from the fountain of life that she carried then she may have died before she could have made it to the Sentinelos Hospital. General Mirana Nightshade was currently running the operations of the Southern District, covering for her injured partner. These twelve individuals, and Furion himself, ran the entire kingdom, and fortunately for him, none of them had had to be replaced since he assumed the role of King a decade ago. Furion was startled out of his thoughts when a voice rasped from behind him.

"Darkbrew is no more."

"Is that you Rikimaru?"

Silence answered him.

"I guess it must be," Furion said; another one of his most infuriating of subordinates had shown up.

"How did this happen? Razzil Darkbrew was one of the strongest goblins we had."

"He was cut down in enemy territory."

"_What_? What were you two doing there?"

"You told us to hunt. So we hunted."

"Yes, but if your prey leaves our domain you stop!"

Once again, Silence replied.

"What have you done? _What have you done_?"

Furion pushed himself off his throne and vanished from the council chamber.

_Thank goodness he didn't ask if we apprehended the target, _thought Rikimaru.

In the middle of pondering his next move Rikimaru's train of thought was interrupted by Furion's magically enhanced voice.

"**Attention. This is an emergency summons of the Grand Council. All members of the Grand Council must convene at the World Tree Council Chamber in two days time. Tardiness shall be rewarded with the severest of consequences. This is Mal Furion, King of the Sentinels. Ready yourselves, war may be returning to our doorstep**."

_I guess things have become interesting. If only you were here to enjoy this, Darkbrew. _

Rikimaru stifled a grin as he leapt out one of the windows and blinked down to one of the guards patrolling the world tree, thirty feet below his launch point. He landed awkwardly and shook his head. Peace did not become the satyr. He was glad the war had finally begun anew. As Rikimaru faded once again between the planes of light, passersby would swear they heard the wind whisper a bone-chilling prayer.

_Guide my blade, God of Silence, and let my whispering strikes fly true. May the silence of death deafen my enemies. May the curtain of silence blind thy foes. May the thundering quiet drown out the dying cries of those that seek to disturb the stillness of the night. Amen._


	4. Tribal Warfare

**Chapter 3**

_**Tribal Warfare**_

"**Attention. This is an emergency summons of the Grand Council. All members of the Grand Council must convene at the World Tree Council Chamber in two days time. Tardiness shall be rewarded with the severest of consequences. This is Mal Furion, King of the Sentinels. Ready yourselves, war may be returning to our doorstep**."

That was the last thing Yurnero Khan needed to hear. He was in the middle of a tribal meeting when Furion's hectic summons broadcasted into their minds. Of the multitude of chieftains belonging to the United Tribes, only two were members of the Grand Council. Raigor and Yurnero shared a knowing look, as they were the only ones present who received the mental summons, and returned their attention to the task at hand.

"It be of mah thinkin' dat youz be nat respectin' mah tribe, orc!" A ferocious troll with an orange Mohawk yelled as it slammed its fist onto the stone slab that the meeting used as a table.

"What exactly leads you to believe that?" Yurnero replied, putting extra emphasis on the 'h' sound in 'what'.

"Youz bin taxin' mah warriorz more dan de odaz!"

"And who is it that forces me to do so? Every time one of your trolls goes berserk and damages an outpost it is I that must pay for the reparation fees!"

"Why iz we caterin' to de elf and man creatures anyway? We iz de strongest race, we iz de rightful rulaz!"

"Only a fool would think so," rumbled Raigor. "Furion's forces greatly outnumber us, and many of his heroes are a match even for you, Jah'rakal."

"What youz be sayin' cow? No elf, no man-thing, can face Jah'rakal in single combat!"

The troll emphasized his last outburst by striking his chest with the flat of his tomahawk.

"Calm youzelf, me brodda, iz be true what wize Raigor say. I 'ave seen wit mah own eyez the prowess of de Sentinels, and dey be not warriorz dat youz should be underestimatin'" Jah'rakal's Shadow Shaman said.

"Thank you, Rhasta, so here is my decision: I will reduce the taxes on your tribe if you will personally take the punishment for your trolls' misdemeanor, Jah'rakal," said Yurnero.

"Done! 'onourable warriorz my tribe be, dey will be more disciplined under mah wrath."

"Jah'rakal has a point, brother, it seems that we are catering too much to the Sentinels," a brooding, red-skinned orc barked.

"Mogul, we are simply upholding our part of the bargain. Furion could easily conquer his allies as Leshrac did, but he allows our tribes to operate in our own fashion as long as we do not go against the Sentinel Kingdom."

"But that is not all is it? When the Frozen Empire decides to march again we are obliged to fight it!" Mogul Khan sniped.

"Only to protect our freedom! Do you think we will be allowed the autonomy that we have if we were to fall under Leshrac's rule? Under Furion we pay no taxes, we have our own governing system, and we own our own land!"

Mogul Khan stayed quiet after that, but to anyone who was paying attention, he was surely not appeased.

"If that is all for today, Raigor and I must tend to a more pressing matter, meeting adjourned," Yurnero said.

Jah'rakal and Rhasta were the first to leave, followed by Aggron Stonebreaker, chief of the ogres, and finally, after a pointed glare from Yurnero, Mogul Khan.

The Juggernaught surveyed the remaining members of the United Tribes' ruling body. Raigor Stonehoof, a scholar more than a warrior, but very much capable of holding his own in the thick of battle, sat to Yurnero's right. Behind the Tauren Chieftain, standing at attention, was Bradwarden, a huge centaur carrying an equally huge war-axe, notched from countless battles, and covered in the dried blood of his enemies. Bradwarden was Raigor's second-in-command, and could be spotted standing side by side with the chieftain at all times, whether in peace or in war. Behind him stood Rigwarl, the Bristleback champion. Rigwarl wasn't exactly the smartest beast in the woods, but what he lacked in intelligence he made up for in loyalty and combat expertise. Raigor's tribe was one that Yurnero could trust, led by a very wise chieftain, they were a force to be reckoned with if challenged.

" What say you to this sudden news, Raigor?"

"It matters not what I think does it? If we are to be plunged back into war, the Frozen Empire must not be allowed to triumph."

"Is it a war that we should be a part of?" said an old, cloaked orc sitting on a giant wolf.

"As of now, yes, Chen, we are. It would be nothing short of cowardice to retract our alliance with Furion at the moment," replied Yurnero.

"I can assume, my chief, that all this talk of war is because Furion has summoned you to a meeting of the Grand Council?" Chen inquired.

"That you are correct, we have two days to arrive at the World Tree. Considering it only takes us one day to make it there, it gives us one day to decide whether or not we'll answer the summons," said the Juggernaught. "I will sleep on this before I make a decision, I'd advise for you to do the same Stonehoof."

Yurnero left the meeting hall leaving Raigor, and his generals, to the tauren's own worries.

------------------------------------------

Mogul Khan left the hall with a burning heart. Although he was the elder, his younger brother, Yurnero, had always been the more skilled of the two in battle, which was all that counted in the orc tribe. Not only was Yurnero Khan a stronger warrior he was governed not by greed but by honor, a very troublesome quality that often rubbed Mogul the wrong way. For these reasons, Mogul Khan decided to call on the Scourge messenger who had visited him the night before. As he neared his tent a chill went up his spine. Unconsciously, his hand dropped to his axe as he opened the flap to his tent.

"I need an answer, my king is not a patient one," a voice, barely audible, rang from the darkness.

"Show yourself, I do not like talking to myself," Mogul growled.

"My sincerest of apologies, great Khan."

A skeleton stepped out of the shadows, its face set permanently into a gruesome grin.

"I have come to the conclusion that it would be best for me, and those under me, to swear allegiance to the Lord of Agony. Furion is too weak a leader to win the War," Mogul answered.

"A wise choice, great Khan, I will bring this great news to King Leshrac. There is only one little detail that I must take care of before I depart," said the Bone Fletcher. "Give me your hand, Great Khan."

Mogul cautiously extended his right hand to the messenger. Faster than the eye could see, the skeleton took one of his arrows from its quiver, lit the head with a sickly green and orange flame, and stabbed Mogul on the back of his hand. The orc roared in pain and made to strike the messenger when it raised one of its skeletal hands and placed what used to be its palm against the Khan's forehead. When bone came into contact with skin a mark seared into the orc's forehead.

"You have received the mark of Pain, a sign of fealty to the Frozen Throne and its emperor, Leshrac the Tormented, and from this day forth swear to fight under the banner of the Frozen Empire. Given and witnessed by Bone Clinkz the Bone Fletcher, Imperial Enforcer of the Frozen Empire," said Clinkz amidst the howls of pain from Mogul Khan.

"Make your way across the border as soon as possible. As of now you are no longer a Khan and you and your followers must earn positions within the upper ranks of the Horde," said Clinkz before he vanished into the air.

The pain subsided after what seemed like an eternity, leaving Mogul sprawled on the floor, drenched in sweat. As useless as the thought was now, Mogul wasn't sure he had made the right decision. The orc was left with another problem: convincing those under him to take the mark as he had. He knew of at least two of his brethren that would accept his decision unquestioningly. Lion and Demnok, the Demon Witch and head Warlock of his tribe, were loyal to him. However, the rest of the tribe nearly worshipped Yurnero, making the job infinitely more difficult. He could only think of one more orc that could possibly switch sides with him, and two of Jah'rakal's kin were promising targets.

"Is everything alright, great Khan?" a voice called out from outside the tent.

"Well, speak of the devil," Mogul muttered, wincing in pain. "Everything is fine, Strygwyr, come in."

An orc, his muscles toned and compact like beams of steel rather than large and bulky like the rest of his brethren, pushed aside the flap of Mogul's tent and stuck his head in. He wore a white-wolf pelt over his face, like a half-mask, that draped over his shoulder and back. Claws of some unknown predator were strapped to his forearms, a constant reminder to those around him that he was ready for bloodshed. Bloodshot eyes peered at the orc co-commander from under the wolf mask. Mogul swore he saw a raised eyebrow, except for the fact that the snout of the wolf mask hid Strygwyr's brow. What a sight he must have been, lying on the ground, bathed in sweat as if he had just concluded a cataclysmic fight when clearly there was no sign of conflict or a single foe.

"Strygwyr thought he heard you shouting. Thought there might have been trouble. Thought wrong," said the Bloodseeker.

"You must have been imagining things, but let's put that aside. I have a question for you, young one, and you must keep this between you and me," Mogul said as he picked himself up and sat down on his bear pelts. He motioned Strygwyr to sit across from him. "What do you seek in life?"

"Question is broad. Question is strange. But answer Strygwyr know. Blood. Strygwyr seek blood. He seek war. He seek the redness that comes. He seek the smell of iron. He seek the taste of copper. He seek the despair in eyes as Strygwyr gouges them out. Strygwyr seek the rush of kill, and the life that he consume. Good answer?"

Mogul smiled wickedly, "perfect."

"Why ask, great Khan?"

"What would you say if I told you I could give you what you seek?"

"You cannot. Yurnero forbids the killing. Yurnero great warrior. Even Strygwyr may not win in battle. There is few that Strygwyr cannot win in battle."

"But If I could give you what you seek, would you follow me? Would you leave Yurnero and stand by my side if I could give you war, and all the blood you could ever want?"

Strygwyr thought about it. He had grown from an orcling under the care of Yurnero, but the past two years of peace have slowly eaten away at the Bloodseeker's nerves. He had grown irritable, prone to bursts of rage that ended in large brawls. Perhaps Mogul Khan would solve this problem. Peace was a problem best solved quickly. But what would Yurnero say about this? In all his life, he had not seen the Juggernaught lose a challenge once, and there had been many challenges. Many orcs felt the way he did and did not approve of the peace treaty. War was an essential facet of orc life, without it they were simply a shell of their former selves.

"How you do that?"

"Trust me. Tomorrow I will give you what you want. Go to your tent and have a good rest tonight, Bloodseeker, for if you follow me there will be little rest and a lot of blood."

That didn't sound bad at all, rest was overrated anyway.

"You, Strygwyr trust. You give Strygwyr blood, Strygwyr give you loyalty."

With that the Bloodseeker stood and made his exit.

"Three down, two to go."

-------------------------------------------------

Jah'rakal paced his command tent worriedly. His brother, Rhasta, sat calmly by his stack of wards and charms, sipping a cup of steaming tea.

"What be de problem, brodda?" asked Rhasta.

"I fearz sum o' de tribe iz be not 'appy wit dis peace," replied the Troll Warlord.

"Defectorz you iz worried bout?"

Jah'rakal nodded. He didn't know why, but he felt an uneasiness about the loyalty of his tribesmen. He was especially worried about the more intelligent of his kin. There had been reports about the Witchdoctor, Vol'jin, and his brother, Dazzle the Shadow Priest, causing unrest within his tribe. The troll twins, both dabblers in the magic arts, were no match for Rhasta and were clearly displeased by that fact. It was for this reason that he requested the meeting of the United Tribes to show his tribe that he understood their concerns and was making an effort to deal with it. Alas, he was sure that his outburst against Yurnero did little to assuage the battle hunger that his trolls had been building up since the break in the War two years ago. If he was not careful the Troll Warlord could lose his control over his warriors.

"What you do bout Vol'jin and Dazzle?" asked Jah'rakal.

"Notin'. Dem be troublemakerz, but dem be powerful troublemakerz. When de war be startin' agin, dey be valuable assets."

"If dey still be loyal to us, you mean. I fearz dey goin' be dezertin'. Me axe tellz me dis, and me blood tellz me dis."

"Peace, brodda. If dem twoz be fool enough to be dezertin', den dey feel de wrath of mighty Jah'rakal, de boss man Yurnero, and me Serpentz!"

"Youz be right, brodda. Iz bedda we take rest now, worry tomorrow."

That night proved to be the last in which Jah'rakal's tribe would rest as a whole.

----------------------------------------

Raigor stayed seated at the Great Hall, mind lost in troubled thoughts, as Bradwarden and Rigwarl stood silently behind their chieftain. There was no doubt in the tauren's mind that he would answer Furion's summons. However, if Yurnero opted out of the alliance the Sentinel forces would be weakened dramatically. The tribes acted as a buffer for Sentinelos, without which the capital of the Kingdom would be open to a lengthy siege that Furion could not afford. If it were up to Raigor the United Tribes would be a permanent member of the Sentinels. Unfortunately, Raigor's tribe consisted only of the beast-folk of the Sentinel Woods, the cumulative force of which was less than a quarter of the United Tribes. Although the battle prowess of Raigor's tribe was unquestionable, they were the heavy infantry, in other words the tanks of the Allied Armies; without support they were open to ranged fire and the very real risk of being surrounded by overwhelming numbers. Two dozen cuts from haphazard strikes were still two dozen bleeding wounds, one or two of which may end up being fatal. Raigor would rather die than to return to the dregs of the Frozen Empire. It would be unfair, however, to ask the same of his tribesmen. As the chief it would be irresponsible to throw his brethren into a suicidal war. To die in battle is the greatest glory, but only if someone knows about it. Songs cannot be sung, and tales cannot be told, of forgotten warriors. Eventually, Raigor left the Great Hall, the night's problems still buzzing in his head, and made for his temporary quarters. Each of the tribes had been allocated a temporary section of Yurnero's camp for the United Tribes meeting that afternoon. The trolls made their tents at the western corner of the camp, with the ogres in the north, the beast-folk in the east, and the orcs in the center. As Raigor was making his way to the east, Bradwarden and Rigwarl close behind him, he heard voices come from a cluster of huts from his left. In most cases Raigor would have ignored them and carried on with whatever he was doing. However, by the position of the moon Raigor knew it was already well into the night, an ungodly hour for anyone to be awake much less talking with one another.

"You two stay put, I'm going to see what's going on," he told his tag-a-longs.

Bradwarden and Rigwarl gave each other a quizzical look and shrugged; when the chief tells you to do something, you do it.

Raigor left his totem with his champions and crept, as quietly as a ton of fur, hoof, and muscle could, towards the voices. As he neared the huts he checked for his dagger of escape, a gift an old friend he had met in the gladiator pits of the Frozen Empire had given him, in case he needed to make a quick exit. The low voices soon became clear enough to hear so Raigor stopped to listen, his ears raised and twisted in their direction.

"Tomorrow I will need you two more than I've ever needed you. I will call for another meeting of the United Tribes to announce my new allegiance. Can I trust you two to stand by me?"

"I have waited for this day for a long time, great Khan, and I am glad you are the one who will be leading us onto this new path."

"Thank you, Lion, and you, Demnok?"

"These old bones have been through thick and thin on your journey to Khanhood, and these old bones will continue to be with you through thick and thin until my heart stops beating."

"I trust you two more than my own blood brother, know that you will both rise with me in the ranks of the Scourge. I have one more task for the two of you. I need you to go to the troll camp and convince the Witchdoctor and Shadow Priest to join our cause. I assume that words from magic-users carry more weight than that of a warrior, make sure they either agree or never wake from their sleep."

Raigor couldn't believe what he heard. Yurnero's brother was planning a mass desertion? Who else was in on this? The implications of a large scale desertion were catastrophic. Depending on the size of the forces swearing new oaths to the enemy, the Sentinels could be losing the advantage of the forest buffer zone. Mogul Khan had certainly travelled the Sentinel Woods enough to have an extensive knowledge of the landscape. He thought of calling Bradwarden and Rigwarl over to slay the renegade Khan and his lackeys right then and there, thereby solving the problem before it had begun. However, Yurnero would never accept that his brother was a would-be deserter unless it came from the orc's own mouth. Killing Mogul Khan now would invite more problems than it would solve, namely the potential banishment of his tribe and his subsequent execution for the murder of a Khan. Better to let Mogul hang himself and prepare a counter-measure to deal with the uprising. A plan began to form in Raigor's mind as he blinked back to his subordinates.

"We have work to do this night. Rigwarl, I need you to summon the brothers, they've been complaining about doing nothing but twiddling their thumbs all year, now they'll get a chance to use those thumbs until they're blistered and bruised," said Raigor.

"Aye, chief Stonehoof, may the Earth God be with you," the Bristleback snorted back.

"The Earth God be with you," Raigor replied as Rigwarl raced into the shadows of the night. Raigor turned to Bradwarden, "tomorrow I need you to stay vigilant, keep a keen eye on my tribe except for the brothers. Ignore them, they will have their reasons for their actions, but if anybody else seems suspicious or weak in fortitude cut them down where they stand. Blood will be shed tomorrow, mark my words, just pray to the Earth God that none of it is ours.

----------------------------------

Early the next morning, when the sun's rays were just beginning to skim the tops of the Ironwoods and the dew drops still glistened like thousands of glass pearls on the tips of the blades of grass still undisturbed by the heavy footfalls of hooves and boots, Yurnero awoke from his dreamless sleep. He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes and stretched his arms high over his head. He placed his arms on his knees and shook his head violently, blinking his eyes rapidly.

It felt like a good day.

The Juggernaught left his tent and took a deep breath of fresh morning air, filled with the scent of Ironwood, Pine, Oak, and Fir mixed with the slight tang of the light shower from last night. Today, out of all days, thought Yurnero, was a good day to die if any. Of course, he didn't know that today would be the first of many that he'd be testing that thought.

It was most definitely not a good day.

The sudden blare of the Calling Horn at the roof of the Great Hall, accessible only to the Khans of the orc tribe, shattered Yurnero's state of serenity. The horn was used to call the leaders of the United Tribes to the meeting chamber in the Great Hall. Yurnero, who was obviously not the one blowing it, should have been the only one allowed to use the horn.

"Mogul."

The Juggernaught quickly returned to his sleeping tent to retrieve his sword and sprinted to where his brother was bound to be. As he ran to the hall he caught sight of Jah'rakal and Rhasta running to the call of the horn from their camp. Soon Aggron and his advisors joined the race. When the other leaders caught sight of Yurnero they stopped, their morning faces warped by puzzlement.

"If youz be here, den whoz be blowin' de 'orn?" asked Jah'rakal, his mind still groggy from the rude awakening.

"Bad feeling, I have about this. Your brother, could this be?" Aggron asked in his infuriating speech pattern.

"I'm afraid he is the only person who could have accessed the Horn. What could he possibly be up to?"

"Let us find out," Rhasta said, resuming the march to the Great Hall.

Just as Yurnero expected, when they reached the Great Hall Mogul Khan stood at the entrance waiting. On either side of him stood Demnok Lannik and Lion, and to Demnok's left stood Vol'jin and Dazzle.

"You twoz! I knew it! I even told Rhasta, I told him!" Jah'rakal shrieked.

"I thought no one waz suppoze to knowz bout dis, Mogul," Vol'jin asked.

"He knows nothing, he is only acting out on his suspicions. It's a mystery why he hadn't dealt with you two by now if he had such strong doubts about your loyalty," replied Mogul.

"What is this, brother?" Yurnero called out.

Just then Raigor and his clan, in full force, joined the gathering.

"How thoughtful of you to bring your entire tribe, Stonehoof," Mogul jeered.

"What is there for me to fear, wretched Khan?" Raigor growled.

"Raigor, do you know something I don't?" Yurnero asked him.

"You will find out soon enough, noble one," the tauren replied.

Mogul Khan raised his hands for silence. A disquieting hush fell over those present. Even the birds seemed to stop their chirping.

"What has Furion done for us? We have died protecting _his_ city, _his_ kingdom, and _his_ people. _We_ acted as the meat shields of the Sentinels, first to bear the brunt of the Frozen Empire's assaults while Furion's elves and man-lings stay safe behind their stone walls and towers. _We_ are the ones that lose brothers, friends, fathers and sons. Yet still we pay homage to a king that follows a goddess of the night, whereas we are proud followers of the day gods! He doesn't even allow us to whet our blades on our enemies or lay waste to their cities out of our own volition. We are races of war! Peace does not become us! Peace is like an oversized breastplate; it is not only uncomfortable but also hazardous to our wellbeing. Look at us; we were once rulers of more than just the woods. Now we stand next to dwarves! We used to shake the foundations of fortresses that the dwarves claimed to be impregnable. Now we hide in caves, and the nooks and crannies of the forest. We must ask for _permission_ before we are allowed to hunt on Sentinel grounds. What happened to the days when we could raid a human settlement and have feasts worthy of the kings that we are? When was the last time an orc and his wolf rode down a fully armored knight? When was the last time a troll shaman turned a human mage's spell against itself? When was the last time an ogre, tauren, or centaur felt frail elven bones shatter under the weight of their mauls, totems, or axes? Why must we protect such weak creatures? Through the War we've pitted ourselves against foes that we should have been fighting side by side with. They are worthy foes, strengthened by hardships, honed by constant battle, and as bloodthirsty as the best of our ilk."

Mogul paused, brushed the hair covering his forehead aside, and revealed the back of his right hand. A sudden wave of gasps and roars of surprise exploded into the morning air.

"I, for one, have had enough of this weakling king. I, Mogul Khan, have chosen to walk the path that is my birthright. I choose war over peace. I choose freedom over these shackles that the Sentinel have locked around our ankles that they call 'civility'. Follow me and there will be plenty of bones to crush, ears to cut, and skulls to build monuments to your valor."

"Khan soundz right! I haz enough of diz peace, diz ting Furion say we must have," a heavily muscled troll, with dozens of braids hanging from its Mohawk, shouted from the crowd.

"You iz fool! We must followz great Jah'rakal! Great Jah'rakal iz followz Furion so we must followz Furion!" another troll, this one with a giant red Mohawk, golden earrings hanging from its earlobes, and a stack of spears strapped to its back, rebuked the previous one.

An agony-filled roar interrupted the debate. All eyes focused on Raigor's clan. Bradwarden's axe had cleaved a furbolg champion from shoulder to hip, leaving the body severed cleanly in half on the grass, the blood mixing with the dew. Out of somewhere in the mass of beast-folk another furbolg champion leapt at the Centaur Warchief. Bradwarden back-handed the furbolg, dropping the beast straight down, and stomped a massive hoof onto its skull, crushing it instantly. Bradwarden returned to his place beside Raigor, not even winded.

"Unlike your unruly trolls, Jah'rakal, my clan understands command. Any beast that even thinks of defecting to the Lord of Pain shall first feel the wrath of Bradwarden's axe. Sooner or later they will have to meet it, it might as well be now before they cause any trouble. So how about it? Do any of you desire to taste the bite of Bradwarden's edge?"

Raigor turned around and surveyed his clan. He spotted a group of tauren and one centaur with downcast eyes, shifting their weight gingerly. He signaled to his general and received a nod of acknowledgement.

"You three tauren, and you, the centaur, yes you. You four seem to be juggling the idea of crossing over. To make this fair, all who want to join Mogul may challenge Bradwarden, Rigwarl and myself all at once."

Unsure expressions quickly changed to grins of anticipation. No beast would fight Raigor or his generals in single combat, but in a match of numbers they were more than confident that they could win. To Raigor's surprise the centaur stayed put. However, one centaur multiplied into three furbolgs, one wildkin, and two more tauren.

" Nine to three, the odds are in your favor. This is your last chance to change your mind," Raigor said.

No one stepped back into the ranks of the tribe.

"Die traitors!" Raigor roared without warning, bringing his totem down hard. The power of Raigor's strike shook the earth, knocking his opponents off their feet. Rigwarl, who was previously standing at the back of the tribe, made a mighty leap over his tribesmen and landed, the quills on his back spraying in all directions, behind the two new tauren deserters. The Bristleback champion swung his flail at one of the tauren's heads. The huge, spiked block at the end of the chain smashed straight down through the fallen tauren's face, spilling its brains all over Rigwarl's hooves. Bewildered at the brutality of the attack, the dead tauren's companion retaliated by smashing its totem into Rigwarl's back. It struck the mass of quills on Rigwarl's back and bounced off, jarring the weapon from its owner's hands. Unharmed, Rigwarl swung around and slammed his flail into the tauren's shoulder; even the trolls watching twenty feet away could hear an audible crack and winced. In terrible agony, and fearing for its life, the tauren tried to run away, clutching at its broken shoulder, but Rigwarl wasn't about to let that happen. He took a deep breath from his mouth and fired a mass of green goo from his nostrils at the fleeing tauren's feet. The mucus entangled its hooves, tripping the tauren. Before the other deserters could help, Rigwarl raced up to the tauren and repeated his execution swing. The furbolgs and the wildkin finally snapped out of their daze and rushed Rigwarl as one. As the furbolgs got to their feet and closed the distance between them and the Bristleback, Bradwarden rushed into the fray, hooves slamming into the ground, pitching his opponents off their feet once again. Rigwarl and Bradwarden each executed another deserter while they lay helplessly on their backs, stunned from the Centaur Warchief's stomp. Raigor could see that the three tauren that he had spotted before were going to be much more trouble than the previous beasts had been. They took the opportunity, while Bradwarden and Rigwarl were distracted with finishing off the last of the stunned beasts, and attacked the centaur from behind. The centaur's reflexes were fast enough to deflect one of the totems but the other two found their marks on his left leg and back. Rigwarl leapt in and swung his flail furiously at the tauren who had attacked Bradwarden's leg and was met with the backswing of the same totem. Raigor recalled the names of the three renegades. They were Malhorn Graymane and his two brothers, Grael and Namet. Although they were young, they had proved to be quite skilled in battle and had accompanied Raigor on many of his expeditions during the War before the peace. Perhaps all that fighting had given them a thirst for blood akin to Mogul's. How unfortunate it was to have to put down such fine tauren, thought Raigor. Seasoned fighters as they were, Raigor knew the Graymanes stood no chance against the even more seasoned Bradwarden and Rigwarl; he needed not enter this fight.

"Grael, Namet, keep Bradwarden busy while I finish Rigwarl!" shouted Malhorn. He had countered Rigwarl's flail with the back of his totem and was quickly readying the massive weapon for another attack.

Rigwarl knew that to take a full strike from the totem was asking for trouble. The totem was a large weapon, although deadly if it hits its mark, it was cumbersome and hard to wield. Instead of backing up, like most would do, Rigwarl moved into the totem's range. Seeing this, Malhorn tried to move back; the totem needed distance to be effective, much like a spear does. Rigwarl fired another batch of goo at the tauren's feet, causing him to fall over backwards as he tried to move away. Instead of falling over, Malhorn brought his totem back and used it as a prop. At the same time, he used the force it generated to propel himself forward, bowling Rigwarl over. With a snort of frustration Rigwarl rolled to the side before the weight of the tauren could pin him down. As he rolled he fired a dozen foot-long quills from his back in hopes that a few of them would strike home. Malhorn dropped dead instantly, one of the quills had pierced his left eye and gone straight into his brain. Rigwarl, with a snort of relief, picked himself up and watched Bradwarden at work, while he started to clean his flail.

Grael and Namet were faced with a dilemma. They could either separate and surround the centaur, or stay together as a wall of totem and muscle. Strategically, it would probably be better to separate, that way they could attack whenever Bradwarden wasn't paying attention to one of them. However, neither of the brothers wanted to be the one the centaur paid attention to. Malhorn's abrupt death didn't help either. They eyed the centaur, Bradwarden didn't even have his axe up! The centaur stood calmly facing them, his tail swishing from side to side lazily.

"This can't be, Malhorn and I struck him with all our strength," Namet muttered.

"He is only hiding his pain, two totem strikes would fell anything!" Grael replied.

Bradwarden growled, he was never one for words.

Grael suddenly lifted his totem and launched it at the centaur. Bradwarden, caught by this surprising tactic, swung his axe up with one hand. The axe bit into the wood and sank into the end of the flying totem. The momentum of the totem carried it, with Bradwarden's axe, on forward. The centaur let go of the axe to prevent dislocating his shoulder and realized that something had gone wrong. Namet had sprinted along with the totem, which had blocked Bradwarden's sight, and now stood within range to deal the centaur a full swing. The tauren swung his totem at the centaur before Bradwarden could recover from the loss of his axe. Namet and Grael roared with triumph as the totem connected with Bradwarden's left arm, crushing it against his body, and sending the centaur to the ground. Bradwarden, bellowing furiously, shot his hooves out at Namet, who had grown careless with the small victory, and snapped the tauren's shin. Roars of triumph quickly became howls of agony as Namet toppled to the ground clutching at his broken bone. Grael, seeing that he needed to act quickly if he were to defeat Bradwarden, started towards his totem at the same time as the centaur heaved himself up and made for his axe. It soon became a race to the death, the loser would be without a weapon and at the mercy of the winner. Bradwarden had a good head start, but he was injured, and the tauren quickly closed the distance. Grael grunted with hope as he passed the limping centaur and looked back at him.

Big mistake.

Bradwarden grabbed Grael's horns and flung him down. The tauren lost his balance and hit the grass hard. Before Grael could reorient himself, Bradwarden brought his hooves down on his legs and moved on to his arms. Grael had never felt so much pain in his life! He realized that the incessant howling and annoying cries were coming from him as a thousand bolts of pain lanced through his body whenever he tried to move his limbs. Bradwarden had crippled the tauren beyond repair, the bones in his legs and arms had been shattered into hundreds of pieces that even the most genius of surgeons could not piece together. The Centaur Warchief slowly made his way to his axe and pulled it out with a powerful jerk, splintering the wood that held it captive. Grael almost moaned in relief; at last, peace in death and escape from this horrid agony! He closed his eyes expecting all the suffering to end soon.

What came next would be talked about in beast-folk lore far into the future.

Bradwarden picked Grael's head up by his left horn and, with a quick chop, severed the horn from the tauren's head. Grael's eyes jerked open in disbelief, this was the worst punishment thinkable for a tauren! Bradwarden repeated the process with Grael's right horn. The centaur dropped the axe, blade first, into the blood-soaked dirt and moved so that he towered over the fallen deserter. Nobody saw what came next, nobody even wanted to recall what came next. Bradwarden took a horn in each hand, and with all his might, slammed them straight down into Grael's eyes. The horns punctured his eyes, went straight through his skull and into the ground, fixing Grael's head in place. The tauren died with a ghastly grimace on his face with two black horns jutting from where his eyes used to be. A troll vomited somewhere in the crowd as Bradwarden picked up his axe and moved toward Namet.

"No, no! How? Why? We do not deserve this! No! Bradwarden have mercy! Rigwarl? Chief! Chief you cannot let him do this! This is insane, this is beyond cruel! Please, Chieftain, _please_! Raigor, you watched me grow up from a calf! _Please_!" Namet begged as he crawled away from the advancing figure more terrifying than death.

"Exactly. I took care of you since you three were calves, and this is how you repay me? It saddens me that such fine warriors had such dark hearts. You are beyond my redemption, Graymane, pray that the Earth God feels more merciful," Raigor replied, his voice laden with sorrow.

Namet was reduced to screaming and slurred sobs as Bradwarden cut his horns. He began to twist his head from side to side in an effort to get away from the inevitable. His pleading was cut short as Bradwarden held Namet's head still with one hand and impaled Namet's head to the ground with the other. The centaur finished the job with the remaining horn and, with Rigwarl's help, returned to Raigor's side as stoic as ever. Silence lay thick over the assembly, broken only by the quiet sobs and the vomiting of the weaker-willed members of the gathering.

"This is war. This is what Mogul Khan promises you. This is nothing compared to what Leshrac can, and will, do to some of you. This is exactly what Bradwarden will do to you if he ever meets you on the opposite side of the battlefield," announced Raigor, "is this what you want? Is this what you seek? If it is, then by all means go join Mogul."

Nobody made a move. This was not what they had imagined war to be. War was supposed to be filled with glory, it was supposed to be a valiant death. This was, putting it mildly, a slaughter.

Yurnero's blood boiled with anger. This was all Mogul's fault. None of those lives had to be lost if it wasn't for his subversive brother. A rage that had been long buried erupted from the depths of his heart. The Juggernaught drew his katana in response to the fury welling up inside him. Without a word or sound Yurnero darted toward his brother, all else in his vision blurred into a mess of colors, his breathing shallow and rhythmic. A shadowy figure rushed in to intercept him. Yurnero swung his sword down from over his head, intent on cutting the shape cleanly in half. The figure parried the sword at its tip with a set of blood-covered claws and struck back with another set. Yurnero pivoted to the side just as the claws raked passed his face. His focus never faltered from Mogul as he spun around the obstacle and resumed his warpath towards the rogue Khan. With a huff of surprise, and frustration, Strygwyr raced after the agile form of his ex-Khan.

"Hold!" Mogul called out to Strygwyr, raising his axe in preparation for the clash.

As Yurnero neared Mogul he leapt into the air, sword raised high, and brought his katana down, adding his weight to the power of his swing. Mogul took the entire blow with his axe, spreading his legs apart to take the force of the attack. Yurnero pushed himself away and began a series of dance-like strikes, lunging, stabbing, and swiping at his brother. Mogul returned every hit with one of his own, constantly parrying and retaliating. The crash of their weapons resonated in their audience's hearts as they watched the fight anxiously. Every near miss caused winces, every clean block brought sharp gasps, and every counter sent more sweat streaming down their faces. The brothers finally broke their dance of steel and surveyed one another.

"Coward, take your filth and leave now. I do not strike you down now because of the blood that we share, but know that once you leave Sentinel grounds we are no longer related," Yurnero snarled.

"Related by blood? I never thought of you as a brother. You have always had a flaw in your personality that shouts elf more than orc. You will regret this act of foolishness one day," Mogul replied with a mocking grin. "Come, Strygwyr, we depart. Let these fools wallow in their own incompetence and dig their own graves with Furion."

Strygwyr moved uneasily to Mogul's side and the deserters backed slowly into the woods toward the desolate peaks of the Icecrown Mountains. The mountains would prove to be a safer bet than trying to cross the Sentinel outposts and explaining to the sentries why they were moving towards the Frozen Empire and not away. Right before Mogul thought it was safe to present his back to the United Tribes a flaming spear struck the tree next to him.

"Yaz, you be runnin'. Next time I seez you you won' be so lucky!" the troll with the red Mohawk shouted at him.

"See you on the battlefield, troll," Mogul replied as he and his group fled into the safety of the woods.

Suddenly, three petite shapes sprinted after the renegades from Raigor's tribe. Bradwarden and Rigwarl made to chase them but Raigor blocked their path with his totem. The chief gave them a pointed look and a look of understanding dawned on their faces.

"It seems there is no choice but for me to attend the Grand Council meeting, there is much news to deliver to Furion," Yurnero sighed, sheathing his sword.

"Aye, let us make our way to the World Tree. Perhaps my charm and wit shall lighten the mood while we travel?" Raigor offered with a comical shrug.

Yurnero chuckled. "Perhaps it will, perhaps it will."

As the United Tribes dispersed, returning to their own territories, most likely readying for war, Yurnero, Raigor and Bradwarden, for the centaur never left the tauren's side, began their trek towards Sentinelos. Raigor made sure Rigwarl lead the beast-folk back to their main camp, temporarily in charge while his superiors were away. Before the Great Hall left his sight, Raigor whispered a prayer:

"May the Earth God be with you, Meepos, and keep you in his eye."

His eyes darted to the trees on his right and noted a short figure trailing them. His heart felt comfort, and pride, at the presence of the youngest Meepo brother. The quadruplets, given a mission of substantial danger, were going to have a long and convoluted journey ahead of them.

In fact, so were they.


End file.
